Director Dubois led the eclectic group into the primary debriefing room. It was a high-tech amphitheater, a cocoon of dark metal and glowing glass. A massive, central holographic display currently showed a news station's logo.
"Just moments ago, we were alerted that the Sakura TV network was about to broadcast a direct message from the entity known as 'Kira'," Dubois announced, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
Sherlock Holmes raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Broadcast? TV? You speak of this... television. Is it some form of advanced telegraph?"
Hercule Poirot sighed softly, dabbing his brow with a silk handkerchief. "It is a box with moving pictures, mon ami. A moving picture show in every home." He glanced at the holographic display. "Though, I confess, the television of this era appears to be substantially different from the wireless sets of my time."
An official quickly elaborated. "The network received a message. An ultimatum. Broadcast Kira's pre-recorded audio and video file, unedited, at precisely 11:30, or the entire board of directors would die of heart attacks. They complied."
As if on cue, the news logo vanished, replaced by static. Then, a distorted, synthesized voice filled the room, layered over a chaotic montage of violent crimes and screaming faces.
Light Yagami's Apartment
Light sat back in his chair, a thin smile of triumph on his face. The message he had crafted was a masterpiece of divine proclamation. It was elegant, powerful, and absolute. It declared his judgment upon the wicked and established his divine authority. It was the birth of his new world's scripture. He watched the screen, waiting to hear his own words echo across the globe.
But the voice that spoke was not the one he had created. And the words were a perversion.
"HEEEELLOOO, WORLD!" the voice on the screen cackled, a manic, mocking tone that made Light's skin crawl. "It's me, your friendly neighborhood god of justice! Your loving, righteous, and ever-so-powerful KIRA!"
Light's smile evaporated. What?
"The little worms at Interpol think they can find me," the voice sneered over images of police officers. "They look in Russia! They look in America! So much effort! But they'll never think to look right under their own noses, will they? Not in a little place like the Kanto region of Japan. That would be too simple, wouldn't it?"
The blood drained from Light's face. He had sent them a declaration of godhood. This... this was a taunt. A crude, childish taunt that narrowed the global manhunt down to a single region. His region. This wasn't his message. This was a trap.
Interpol Debriefing Room
The broadcast ended with a final, chilling laugh. The room was thick with a stunned, terrified silence.
Then, a quiet voice cut through the tension.
"That is not Kira."
All eyes turned to L, who was now carefully stacking sugar cubes from a bowl on the table into a precarious tower.
Before anyone could question him, Connor spoke, his voice calm and even. "My analysis of the vocal modulation, linguistic patterns, and psychological framing supports L's conclusion. The message displays traits of theatricality and narcissistic self-sabotage inconsistent with the established profile of Kira. Probability of authenticity: 2.1%."
The classic detectives were speechless. Holmes frowned, trying to find a flaw in the logic but coming up empty. Poirot stroked his mustache, his eyes narrowed in thought. "The psychology... mon ami, it is all wrong! The vanity is there, but it is the vanity of a clown, not of a despot."
Just then, an aide rushed over to Dubois, whispering urgently in his ear. Dubois's eyes went wide.
He turned to the room. "That was Sakura TV. They just got their systems back. They say they never broadcast any message. Their entire network was hijacked by an outside source. They're asking us for confirmation of what was aired."
The room erupted in hushed, frantic whispers. Watson stared blankly. "Good lord... they hacked the entire broadcast network?" The sheer technical impossibility was staggering. A grudging, profound respect for L's and Connor's immediate and accurate deduction began to settle over the others. They weren't just brilliant; they were of this impossible time.
"How could you possibly know?" Holmes demanded, his voice sharp with a mix of irritation and awe.
L placed the final sugar cube on his tower. "Kira believes himself a god," he said simply, not looking up. "Gods do not taunt, they proclaim. They do not revel in chaos, they impose order. Kira's ego is absolute, but it is the ego of a purist, a messiah. This," he gestured to the blank screen, "was a performance. A messy, theatrical, and deeply personal act. It was a message intended not for the world, but for Kira. And for us. This is the work of B.B."
He finally looked up, his dark eyes sweeping over the officials. "Tell the network to check the metadata on their primary servers. Not the broadcast logs, the core documents in their computer."
Holmes opened his mouth. "What precisely is this 'com-put-er' you speak of—"
"Not now, Holmes," Watson muttered, placing a hand on his friend's arm. Poirot gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Now was the time for listening, not questioning.
Light stared at the television, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles were white. His perfect plan, his perfect message, hijacked and twisted into a weapon against him. This wasn't a copycat. This was a rival intelligence. Someone who knew his methods, who could anticipate him, who could dance in the shadows he cast. Someone who was playing a completely different game on his chessboard.
Who are you? Who is B.B.? What in God's name do you want?
Unknown Location
In a dark room, lit only by the glow of a dozen monitors, a figure sat hunched in a chair, his posture unnervingly similar to L's. The screens showed the chaos his broadcast had caused: news reports, terrified social media feeds, Interpol's panicked internal comms.
He lifted his head, revealing a face that could have been L's twin, were it not for the wild, manic light in his eyes. A wide, predatory grin stretched across his face, a truly unhinged expression of pure joy.
With a pale, slender hand, he picked up a jar of strawberry jam from the desk, scooped out a dollop with his thumb, and licked it clean.